Lover You Should Have Come Over
by Bluenose
Summary: Guilt and addiction lead to damnation and the road to salvation is never as easy as it seems. Title supplied by Jeff Buckley


Hey,

A lot of this story was worked out between myself and Ashhead, but circumstances meant that we never got the chance to write it. So I decided that I would give the ideas we had a go, and see what came out. I hope Ash is happy with the results!

**Lover You Should Have Come Over**

"Sonofabitch."

It was so damn cold in the cabin. He could hear the wind howling outside, pressing against the wooden walls, seeking out the gaps with icy fingers. It was so damn cold and he couldn't get the damn fire to light.

Another wave raced through his body, twisting his stomach, his mouth suddenly dry and filled with bile and vomit. He slipped to his knees, his back pressed against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself, his body wracked with shivers despite the sweat breaking on his arms and face.

He bit down on his lip, determined to ride out the wave, to ride out the longing and the addiction that was like a physical ache, a physical desire in his body. He had known it would be like this.

She had told him, when they'd come up with this plan to get him clean.

The wave passed, leaving him spent on the floor, his face glistening with sweat, weak and gasping for breath. He closed his eyes, waiting for his body to stop shaking.

The wind blew through the cabin again, cold and unforgiving. It didn't care what he had done. What she had done.

What they had done.

The shaking stopped, fading away like a memory. The addiction remained, lurking at the back of his head, waiting for him to let his guard down, looking for the chance to get close to him again. He had to keep busy.

She had told him that as well.

He struggled back to the fireplace on his knees, fumbling for the lighter, the harsh sounds of his breathing filling his ears. He had to get the fire lit, before she got here, before they both froze to death.

He worked the action on the lighter, watching the flint spark, little flashes of light in the darkness of the cabin.

"Damnit! Light, you sonofabitch."

He worked the action again and the spark caught, the fire flaring weakly to life, the flames brittle and fragile. Hastily he fed it, holding his hands out to it as its warmth poured into his body. He sat as close to it as he could, basking in its brief, glorious warmth.

A faint noise slipped through the haze of his sense. Even now, fallen as far as he had, he recognised the sound of a car.

Gathering his strength, he crawled away from the fire, gritting his teeth, dragging himself across the rough wood floor by his fingertips.

The sudden brush of the wind across his flesh, the kiss of the cold against his body almost stole his strength.

He crawled to the window, using the sill to pull himself upright. Staring out the window, his teeth bared in a twisted grin.

She was here.

xxxXXXxxx

She sat in the car for as long as she could, her hands gripping the steering wheel. She'd taken off her gloves as soon as she had made the turn into the woods, her ringless fingers soon numb despite the car's heater.

She didn't know why not wearing her wedding ring made any difference. It just did, like she wasn't betraying him.

She hated coming here.

Her hands tightened around the steering wheel, and she thought, not for the first time, of running. Running from him, from this situation, from this whole fucking mess that she had created.

She had started this when she walked, willingly, into the Chandler Plaza Hotel. She was responsible. She deserved to be punished, to be hurt, to be hated.

This was her penance.

Not allowing herself to think anymore, she stepped out of the car.

The bitter wind swirled around her, whipping through her clothes, her curls tossed around her face by its touch. She ignored it, opening the back door, reaching in for the supplies she had brought.

The wind changed as she walked towards the door. Becoming more playful. Wrapping her curls around ghostly fingers, running the back of an invisible hand down her cheek.

Just like _he _had done.

She almost smiled.

She tried to tell herself that the tears building in her eyes came from the wind and not from her memories. The same thing she told herself, every time she came here.

This, here, him, was her penance, the solid wooden door of the cabin her salvation, her damnation.

xxxXXXxxx

She always closed her eyes when he kissed her.

It made it easier to pretend. Easier to pretend that it was _him_ kissing her, that it was _his_ hands underneath her shirt, making her body ache for _his _touch. _His_ body behind her, pressing her against the door of the cabin.

She always closed her eyes, always looked away from him. But he knew who's face she saw, who she wished he was.

She never asked who's face he saw when they made love. There were so many demons in his past. Terri. Kate. Claudia. Nina. Their faces came to him when he was alone, haunting him, tormenting him.

He was only at peace when he was with her. Hers was the only face he saw.

xxxXXXxxx

She slipped out of the bed, out of his embrace. Pulling on a Cubs T-Shirt, she walked barefoot across the cabin, sitting down in front of the dying fire, staring into the flickering flames.

He rolled over in bed, still feeling the warmth of her body on the sheets. Watching her.

Her T-shirt slipped down her arm, her face illuminated by the orange glow of the flames, her dishevelled curls framing her face. He stared at her bare shoulder, at where it curved into her slender neck, at the red marks where his stubble had rubbed against the sensitive skin and felt an answering rush of heat through his groin.

He gathered the sheets around him, not wanting her to see his arousal. She never wanted to see him, not after they….

Absently, she pulled the T-shirt up over her shoulder, and then ran her hand through her hair. "I'm leaving, Jack."

"What?"

She couldn't go. He needed her.

They needed each other.

"I'm leaving L.A." She didn't look around, staring into the flames, her back ramrod straight, the old symbol of the strength he had come to rely on, the only strength he had sometimes. "Bill Buchanan….there's an opening as his second in command in Seattle, and I'm going to take it. I have to get out of L.A., Jack. I have to get away. There's too many memories, too much guilt…." Her words trailed away, her body starting to shake with the force of her tears.

It was only then that he realised how much her strength had cost her.

He laid his arm out flat on the sheets, feeling the last memories of her warmth soak into his skin. His eyes traced the tattoo on his wrist, the needle tracks on his arm, listening to her cry, tearing fresh wounds in his soul.

He wondered what their lives would have been like if he'd never devised that plan. If he'd never asked him to lie to her. If she'd never gone into that damn hotel. If his friend had trusted him enough to let him help.

If he'd never put that damn needle into his arm.

If he'd never fallen in love with her.

**The End of Lover, You Should Have Come Over.**


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